four poems

by a.d.

the sacrifice revisited

kin aureolated round the altar     placid as milk     Father presiding to extol his homecoming by one final killing the gods must be fed     surrogate blood     for pardoning ours young girl leads out the dappled victim     nescience wreathed in petals men sprinkle her with barley crumbs wine    honey peel back her head     expose her sacred throat Elektra fevers its softness like a violation feels the ache of Father's eyes on her     probing     burrowing

her mind bends back: her sister     river curdling down her neck eyes astare as only the dead's can stare priest concealed    beneath god's head     blade slicing clean incision above her womb birthing from her own guts     the war     the future     death later  sees the flesh quartered bits of meat     stuck in the men's teeth her mind looks on unflinching     knows that in this world the meek get eaten but she is not meek     she is of the ones that eat

bluntness of memory I reconciliation

the silent scene being played in the kitchen stabs you like a betrayal- the vulgarity of your father's mouth stuffed with the softness of your mother's milky breast like a hare's innocent throat taking residence in the wolf's stately jaws. his undaunted gaze holds defiant as it banishes you back to your room.

later, as you creep back to your insulated sanctuary, aware of every follicle in your body buzzing red electric, aware, for the first time, of a pulse beating its unknown rhythm in the recesses of your uncomprehending body, separate from the heart, as an unslakable wave of nausea deep-floods your gut: the dawning that he is capable of feeling & has been all along.

you lie motionless, marinating in your covetous bed of revulsion & lust with bile like an eyeball lodged in your throat & play out your mother's betrayal still being enacted in the urine glow of the kitchen;

the tension swelling & then, finally, the release

of this peculiar disgust that would only be expelled

through the secondary mouth:

the rebel act of the initiated- incidental & perfect.

II

eventually there comes a time to forgive your mother her predicament, her liability of laying bare her body on the counter for your father & his maggot eyes;

to forgive too your father his weakness for domination, his habit to love only through vicious bite;

to forgive yourself your shame, cum- white & slithering, that tides you over with every recollection of this deed & each one since-

there comes a time to stop breathing paranoid, to stop painting monsters out of us pitiful, lonely creatures.

The Homecoming

That viscous scent of home abides despite not being breathed

in for years... an indelible fragrance of terror

obfuscating everything. The father will return no longer, but his turgid

spectre lingers, folded in every fissure, mouth agape

& soundless in his muted theatre of horrors.

Every step taken within the abattoir of a room fleshes out a memory-

the obedience of a mother blind as the statue of the Virgin, who

placid & unblinking, beheld the tragedy unfold; the sobriety of his face each time

he swore his affection; his hand that grazed unchecked

your delicate skin that burned adolescent. The stroke of his axe

still echoes long after he's gone, echoes around the padlocked chest

of your own private confessional, where he used to coax out

your inutile sins to valiantly absolve them; where sometimes,

the penitence his febrile mind would assign was only negligence-

& still, in every instance it was a blessing to have that barring sheet

of wooden coffin separating his carnivorous hand from your brittle flesh.

Sheltered within this prison is where they will find you, still tremulant,

still haunted, still waiting on his furtive footfalls to absolve you of your mind

Dogma

after Pier Paolo Pasolini

I.  Prime

The dawning light restores his solemn chastity. The sanctuary he enters chastened & still quivering. As if heeded, he draws ever nearer to the pierced feet, feels the weight of that pinned body behind him, tense & trembling. He has come to understand what it's like to be fastened. This service that he has conducted many times, while necessary, falls short of deliverance. Void faces reflect their resignation back at him. Even here, he wishes he could break & pass around the sustenance of his body. Among the pews he spreads salvation; the words fall silent as snow.

II.  Sext

He finally fathoms the calling- to obey not the whims of pleasure but a duty whose hammering still echoes, muted, through the centuries. He has found that the closest way to replicate the passion is to offer the body for communion- the body, hallowed, with its flaws & odors & all its teeming humanity. Surrendering the body is all that faith has ever taught him; life & its suffering hone his creed.

III.  Vespers

There is nothing more sacred than violence                                                                                                                              felt within the body. The nails being driven,                                                                                                                          the taste of the whip beneath the tongue.                                                                                                                  Saintlike, he swaps the holy band for a binding                                                                                                                 that remains imprinted around the throat                                                                                                                         long after its removal. Aided by darkness, he exits                                                                                                           one place of worship to enter another-                                                                                                                                       its drive more urgent, its absolution tangible. Selfless,                                                                                                      he exposes himself on the cross, offers himself                                                                                                                     as a transient vehicle in which God can be found                                                                                                                    unbridled.

IV. Compline

Here, the price of admission is the self. Nightly he relishes in this self-flagellation in the service of others, takes the spear in the budding rose of his throat. Oh, the sanctity of the naked body eroticized, the vespers of orgasmic assumption. The erect figure draped bare across the sternum he is tonguing glistens with anticipation, promising immediate salvation.

V. Vigil

The subtle stirring of the body brings God's ascension & with it a stillness. Everything that has been made holy is ready to be blessed again.

  ttt

VI.  Lauds

Having sated his calling, the prostitute returns under the first blush of dawn, & in the vestry smothers his hard-earned holiness.

Photo of a.d.

BIO: a.d. is drawn to the sacred, the profane, the mysterious and the mythological, which provides inspiration for her work. She is a Pushcart- and BotN-nominated bisexual poet and visual artist, with poetry published in HAD, Aôthen, Anti-Heroin Chic, the engine(idling, God's Cruel Joke, DOG TEETH, and elsewhere. Meanwhile, her visual art, mainly photography and self-portraiture, is featured in SCAB, Hominum Journal, The Argyle, Antler Velvet, Bleating Thing and other outlets. Tumblr & Twitter: @godstained